


The feel of your skin on mine

by Analinea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, a little bit of light angst at the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:45:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8389519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Analinea/pseuds/Analinea
Summary: Derek wakes up and his senses are dulled...or maybe there's something else happening here.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A short one-shot that I needed to write because reasons! I'm in a mood for short silly only half good one shots lately while I'm trying to write a long hopefully really good story haha 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Derek wakes up abruptly: he goes from asleep to aware of his surroundings in half a second. But he realizes that it's exactly the problem that woke him up; he doesn't really know if everything feels too far away or if his skin feels to tight.

Werewolf senses aren't always extended to their full capacities, Derek is not always listening to every heartbeat in a two miles radius or smelling his neighbors chemosignals: just like humans get used to constant sounds or touch on their skin and stop noticing it, he isn't conscious of everything all at once. It would be too overwhelming.

But this is not the same. This is him trying to reach out and getting nothing, like all his senses are dulled. He opens his eyes and sees nothing, until he makes out the outline of the furniture in their bedroom. He starts to panic, he can feel his heartbeat rise up in a way he's not familiar with, but he can't _hear_ it.

That's when he realizes there's whimpering behind him, and he turns sharply on his back to try and look at his right, where he's supposed to be instead of on the left side of the bed. He can see a form curled up with their back on him, whining softly, and his panic is washed away by a deep worry.

He gets up quickly, trying to shake off the feeling that he doesn't fit in his skin while he stumbles in the dark to round the bed. He crouches on the other side, reaches to click on the light and–

There, recoiling from the light with a cry of pain, is his own scrunched up face. He almost doesn't recognize himself: he looks slightly different than in pictures and mirrors; but the sight of hands tightly clasped over his ears, claws digging into the skin around makes him shakes off the uneasy feeling in his gut to take care of more pressing matters.

Derek understands immediately, but he gets confirmation when he raises the hands of this body he's in to see familiar thin fingers and pale skin. Stiles'. That's why he couldn't walk properly, not used to legs longer than his, that's why he can't sense things like usual...

And that's the problem with Stiles right now, because he must be inside Derek's body and he's not used to werewolves senses. He tries to touch Stiles hand on top of his ear, but he jerks away from the touch with another whimper. He and Derek both are shaking badly.

Derek gets up and try to control these limbs he's not used to so he can turn on a dimmer light on the other side of the room and come back quickly to turn off the one on his bedside table.

“Stiles,” he whispers, “focus on my voice. Come one, you can do it, block out everything else.”

His heart is beating so fast he feels like it's about to break out of his chest. He wonders how Stiles can bear the feeling, the impression that his chest is paper thin, too tight for his lungs to expand and too fragile to keep his heart inside.

He's panicking, his mind supplies, knows it from having witnessed Stiles' panic attacks. He doesn't really know how to snap out of it. And then he thinks _but what if it's not a panic attack and I'm dying because of whatever is happening_ and it gets worse. The trembling shape of Stiles blurs, and he needs to snap out of this to help him but he can't, and Stiles will eventually lose control from the pain of all these senses he wasn't eased into.

“Stiles,” Derek breathes out, fear lacing a voice that he can't recognize as Stiles' because he's hearing it from the inside. He tries to will away the black spots creeping at the edge of his vision, “Stiles, focus– focus on–” he pants out, unable to finish.

His thoughts go from bad to worse, images of himself going feral playing in his mind, Stiles hurting himself and whoever would have the misfortune of coming here, Stiles coming back to his senses covered in blood and–

Derek feels a hand on his, and he didn't even feel himself moving to tug on his hair. A voice comes from the bed, strained. Derek doesn't recognize it even if logic says that it must be his own, and it takes some time to be able to make out the words.

“Come on, Derek, breathe in slowly through your nose. Come on,” and Derek tries to follow the instructions now that he understands them, follows Stiles counting, “hold it, one, two, three, breathe out.”

Derek fails the first few tries, but eventually manages, and after a few minutes he can breathe almost normally again. He feels so weak, arms and legs heavy, lightheaded. But he looks up at Stiles and sees the pain still there, in the narrowed glowing red eyes in the dim light and the tensed lines of his features. The frown -his eyebrows are really impressive from here- on his face. He can't give in to the exhaustion he feels just yet.

“Stiles,” he slurs a little, “focus on my voice, close your eyes,” he says, bringing a shaky hand up to put it on Stiles's eyes, blocking the light. Stiles moans at the contact but doesn't recoil.

Derek looks around and is grateful for once that they're so messy. The rest of the apartment is spotless, but their bedroom has clothes haphazardly thrown on the floor. He picks up one of his own and puts it near Stiles' nose. Human noses aren't bad, even if they're not at level with werewolves' ones, so Stiles immediately recognizes Derek's scent on the shirt and relaxes.

Derek keeps whispering comforting words until Stiles stops trembling, claws receding. There's blood caked into his hair, but nothing alarming, and the scratches are already healed.

“Is it weird that your scent makes me feel better when I'm in your body?” he says, and Derek chuckles. “What happened?” he weakly continues.

Derek shrugs, gets his hands slowly away from Stiles' eyes and lets him flutter them open slowly, getting used to being so sensitive to light. He gets up from his crouch, wincing when his knees protest -is it normal?- and lies down in front of Stiles.

Derek reaches for his phone, intending to text the Pack and tell them to stay away the next day, but as soon as he lights it up Stiles winces.

“Does it buzz like that all the time?” Stiles grimaces. Derek glances down at the phone.

“I...suppose? I don't really notice, everyone has phones,” he replies, before rushing to finish his mass text and turn it off again. He also asks Deaton to come by early, explaining the situation in a few words. “Electric lines buzz too,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Ain't that right,” Stiles sighs, “remind me to never get bitten...it's a living hell.”

Derek studies Stiles' face, his own face. He finds there some mannerisms that are all Stiles. It makes him smile. They get the other's brain settings -panic attacks and enhance senses- but they stay themselves under all of it. He wonders quietly how that works, and before he knows it he's thinking about psychological theories of neuronal connections. He gets out of it at Stiles chuckle.

“Come back there,” Stiles laughs quietly. Derek doesn't even remember what they were talking about, his thoughts move fast and it's surprising considering how tired he is. Stiles eyes flutter, they're both exhausted, even if Stiles still has this edge of discomfort in all the muscles of his body. It must be really weird for him.

“Let's try to get some sleep,” Derek offers. Stiles nods, tucks his arms against his body and his body against Derek's, like he's afraid of putting his arms around Derek. It makes sense, werewolf strength could be as hard to control as his senses.

Derek thinks about it some more, this situation, but soon enough he can't keep his eyes open anymore, and before he can bring himself back from the edge, he's asleep.

 

Derek wakes up abruptly: he goes from asleep to confused in half a second, and some part of his mind really hopes this is not going to become his usual waking up routine.

Then the pain registers from where his shoulder slammed into the ground, knocking his breath out, and there's a burning itch on his stomach. He groans just when a panicked voice comes from the bed.

“Derek? Derek, fuck, are you okay? I'm so sorry, Derek!” Stiles whisper-shouts from the bed, hands hovering over the edge of the bed, too scared to come down and risk hurting Derek even more.

“I'm okay,” Derek grunts out before managing to take a full breath.

“Thank fuck,” Stiles breathes out, “I can smell blood, Derek, is it bad?” he continues anxiously.

Derek looks down at his chest to see rips in the fabric of his shirt, red stains starting to grow. He pulls up the hem of the shirt with a hiss, but they're both relieved to see that it's barely scratches, not even deep enough to scar. Deaton could have a look at it when he'd be here.

“What happened?” Derek asks, getting up slowly -he needs to give Stiles more credit for getting back up as quickly as he does after taking a hit- and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I don't know,” Stiles says, “I guess something startled me and I kinda pushed you out of the bed. I didn't realized the claws were out until I smelled the blood,” he explains, scrunching up his nose.

Derek looks down at Stiles' hands and he gently takes them in his own, resisting when Stiles tries to pull them out, and he massages the fingers until the claws are in again. Stiles looks down at it in wonder.

“How–” he starts, looking up at Derek again with a small smile.

“You didn't shift completely, I'm impressed,” Derek smiles back, and Stiles beams at him, “are you getting used to the noises?”

“And the smells, and the light, yeah,” Stiles confirms, “as long as we don't talk too loud,” he adds.

Derek nods.

“I'm gonna get cleaned up a little, and Deaton should be here in...,” Derek trails out as he checks the clock, “about an hour. Gives us time for breakfast.”

Stiles flops down on the bed, smiles at Derek as he gets up to gather some clothes -he almost forgets he has to take Stiles'- and closes his eyes again. Derek doesn't doubt he's going to spend this time experimenting with his hearing. He sighs, really wanting to kiss Stiles, but it would just be too weird to smack lips with his own face, so he just turns around and heads to the bathroom.

 

It shouldn't be as funny as it is, but thing is that they're not used to walking around in these bodies -obviously- and it leads to some very funny situations.

Derek and Stiles are the same height or so, but Stiles legs are longer, his center of gravity not the same at all, so Derek looks like a baby duck stumbling around. Stiles can't stop laughing, until he gets up and proceeds to bump into everything in the way of Derek's slightly broader shoulders.

They stand in front of the kitchen counter for a minute, then look at each other and decide that breakfast this morning will consist of something that doesn't need to be cooked. They're comforted in this decision when Stiles carefully opens the cupboard just to crack the first bowl he grabs.

They're eating their cereals when Stiles announces Deaton's presence at the front door a few seconds before a soft knock is heard.

“Derek, Stiles,” Deaton greets quietly, apparently having anticipated Stiles' sensitive hearing, “I heard you have a slight issue.”

Derek would like to growl to signify he's annoyed, because of course he heard, Derek sent him a text, but he's in Stiles body that doesn't have the growling option -he'd probably sound like baby Simba, a thought way too adorable- and it's really not polite anyway. Plus, he wants Deaton to help, so he's not going to annoy him into leaving.

“Can you do anything about it?” Stiles asks in a neutral tone that means he's got the same feelings as Derek. “Oh, first, can you check on Derek? I scratched him this morning by accident, I just want to make sure...,” he trails off.

Deaton's gaze goes to Derek, and it's impressive, really, how unfazed he is by all this.

“Sit down, Derek, I'll take a look at those scratches.”

Derek does, lifts up his shirt and tries not to squirm under Deaton's scrutiny while the man hums, prodding a little.

“They're cleaned up correctly, and they're not deep so they can't turn you,” he directs at Stiles, who gapes a little. He was so worried about hurting Derek that it overrode all thought about how this was actually _his_ body and that the scratches came from an Alpha werewolf.

“Oh, um, right! Good!” he stammers out. “So, about the...,” he waves his finger between Derek and himself.

Deaton hums again. “I must say, I haven't seen an authentic case of soul exchange since the nineties. But I believe, Stiles, that this will sort itself out with a little bit of time, and a lot of _belief_.”

Stiles breathe in deep and closes his eyes, Derek's cue to start taking the lead of the conversation before something tragic happens to the vet.

“What does this mean, exactly?” he asks, harshly than intended.

Deaton smiles mysteriously before finally being a little clearer, “It means that Stiles' spark has matured and his powers are showing off in unexpected ways. Usually, I am called on case of levitating furniture,” he ponders with a chuckle.

“So I...just need to believe we're gonna get back to normal?”

“You need to believe that _you_ can get things back to normal,” Deaton adds, “unlike before when you believed someone else would take care of the problem.”

“I– great!” Stiles exclaim before his face closes off, lips sealed tight.

“Now if you'll excuse me,” Deaton says, “I have patients to attend to. And once this is sorted out, we can start on your training,” he finishes before exiting the room.

Derek doesn't know if the man really has appointments or if he was subtle enough to know when he needed to give them space, but he's grateful for his leaving. Because if Derek knows one thing, it's that Stiles will not only blame himself, but never believe that he can be good enough to fix this.

So he gets up from his chair and goes to Stiles, takes him in his arms and clings even when Stiles takes a step back and gets his own hands away from Derek.

“I don't want to hurt you,” his muffled voice comes from Derek's neck, “I already did, and I don't want to do it again.”

“You won't,” Derek whispers, glad that Stiles can hear it clearly with his borrowed senses, “and you can undo this.” Derek lets go and steps back, but keeps his hands on Stiles' shoulders. “My mom always said,” he starts, knowing that Stiles has a weakness for mom advices, “that if you can...make something, you can unmake it,” he twists the actual sentence a little.

“I know this story, Derek, and it's not what she said at all,” Stiles deadpans, but then a small smiles follows. Maybe it's the thought of little baby Derek getting a plastic ring stuck on his finger - _if you put it on, you can take it off-_ but maybe Derek's trust is contagious.

“I can do this,” Stiles whispers to himself, putting his forehead on Derek's before taking him back into his arms. They stay like that for a while.

 

Derek wakes up abruptly: he goes from asleep to swearing under his breath in half a second. He really hopes it's the last time, because it's really not good for his nerves. He checks what woke him up this time, relieved that he's not sprawled on the floor again, but nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Stiles is asleep next to him, breathing even and heartbeat–

Wait. Heartbeat. Derek smiles and shakes Stiles awake. He spent the day trying and failing, went to bed exhausted and depressed, but he _did it_!

“Wha–” Stiles half raises his head, eyes barely open. “Why am I...oh my god!” he exclaims, sitting up and twisting to turn his light on. “Derek!” The smile on his face is blinding.

Derek chuckles and grips Stiles shirt to pull him to him. They breathe each other air for a second before their lips meet in the most passionate and clumsy kiss since their firsts: teeth clashing, trying to be the one to bite on the other's lips, losing their breath with how much they don't want to stop.

When they finally break apart, they're panting. And laughing.

“Thank god,” Stiles says, “it would have be so awkward to do this to my own face,” he chuckles, then pauses. “I wonder what it would have felt like though...,” he adds half joking and half really thinking about it, and Derek growl warningly.

“You're _not_ doing this again. I won't kiss myself, so I won't kiss you and you'll be miserable.”

Stiles laughs again. “Noted,” he says, before pushing Derek down on the bed and pinning him there without fearing to use all his strength. It good, too, to look up and see warm brown eyes looking back, crinkled with love. But Derek can't help closing his own, when they kiss again.

 

“Stiles! Stiles, get the bed back down on the floor right now! Stiles!”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I would've written smut here but I don't like writing it (and frankly I'm prob very lame at it) as much as I like reading it ^u^ (it also explains why I went with the very very not kinky option here, because this is full of _opportunities_ )
> 
> ANYWAY! Tell me if you liked it!


End file.
